A Girlfriend's Dare: Ch. 10

Steph doesn't sleep that night. She tries, but the footage keeps looping in her head: the way Jamal held Annie's chin, the way Derek filmed everything, the sound of her own voice in the background--so clinical, so certain, like a scientist vivisecting a pet. In the moment, it had been easy to narrate, to direct, to escalate.

Later, in the dark, her stomach turned, arousal and disgust wrestling in the ruins of her composure.

At 4:12 AM, she gives up and checks her phone. There are seventeen new messages. The first is from Derek--a link to the uploaded stream ("we already broke 10k views lmao"), then several screenshots, each less flattering than the last.

The rest are from Jamal.

She opens his thread, thumb shaking.

"yo, u up? holy fuck, ur insane. i've never had a dom chick keep up with me like that. u should come over rn"

then, after a pause: "unless you're scared i'll break u too ;)"

She doesn't reply. But she doesn't close the app, either.

* * *

She finds Annie in the kitchen, already awake, bare-legged in a men's tank top and the fake breasts still glued to her chest. The breastplate is peeling at the collar, the edges a little grimy, but the effect is still disturbingly good. She looks less like a person and more like a home invasion fantasy left out overnight: lips chapped, eye makeup a black ring of defeat, thighs trembling above the linoleum as she stares into the middle distance.

Steph pours two coffees and sits at the table. She's not sure who speaks first.

Annie breaks the silence. "Can we--" She hesitates, voice pitched to a register that still surprises Steph every time. "Can we not do that again?"

Steph sips, considering. "What part?"

Annie wraps both arms around her chest, fingers digging into the silicone slope.

"Jamal. The livestream. The..." She trails off. "You said it was just for Derek."

"I lied," Steph says. The words taste like pennies. "You knew that."

Annie flinches, but doesn't argue. "I don't want to be on camera anymore."

"Sweetie, it's the internet. You always will be." Steph means it as comfort. It comes out like a sentence.

Annie sets the mug down. "Can I take this off?" She gestures to the breastplate.

"It's itching."

Steph considers. The rules say no, but it's not like she's going to call the game warden. She shrugs. "You can try. It's medical adhesive, so you might lose some skin."

Annie nods, as if pain is the expected tax.

There's a new silence, thicker than the first. Steph tries to find the place inside her that feels sorry, but it's buried under a layer of hunger she can't scrape off.

* * *

By ten, Derek has texted again ("u need 2 see this, trust me"), and Annie is in the shower, trying to melt the glue with steam and conditioner. Steph props her phone against the toaster and plays the video, eyes half-lidded.

It's the edit: the whole night compressed into twelve minutes of violent highlight reel. The cuts are tight, the angles more degrading than she remembered--Jamal's hand fisted in Annie's hair, Steph's own face looming over the frame, the moment of poppers and plug played in slow motion. The audio is intact. She listens to herself taunt and threaten, her voice as cold as a D. A. reading charges.

She's about to close it when she catches a flash at the end: a snippet of Jamal, holding Steph's face between his hands, whispering something just out of the mic's range. Her eyes are closed, her mouth open, the posture not one of dominance but supplication. The frame lingers for half a second, then loops back to Jamal finishing in Annie's mouth.

Derek has captioned it: "Next time, more black, less bitch."

Steph stares at the comment. She should be furious. Instead, she feels her nipples stiffen, sharp as needles through her shirt.

She wonders if this is what it's like to be groomed.

* * *

Jamal texts at noon: "you free? have plans for the bitch girl"

Steph types back: "Not sure she'll cooperate..."

Jamal responds quickly with: "make her"

Then after ten seconds of Steph feeling like all of this with Jamal is going to far another message pops up: "and come over first. wanna talk. i'll buy lunch"

Steph doesn't respond, but an hour later she's at the strip mall, sitting across from Jamal in a booth at a Vietnamese place. He's dressed for the gym--sweatpants, Nike slides, gold chain--his skin oiled and perfect, smile shark-white. She tries to hate him, but his confidence is nuclear.

He orders for both of them, then leans forward, forearms on the Formica.

"You're a fucking natural," he says. "No offense, but I thought you were gonna tap out after like one round."

Steph snorts. "Is that what Derek said?"

"Derek's a pussy." Jamal dismisses this with a flick. "I'm talking about you. You went hard. Real hard."

Steph sips her water, waiting for the ask.

Jamal doesn't waste time. "So. I got a dare for you."

She tries to look bored. "Go on."

He grins. "The girl--Andrew, whatever. She's not broken. You can tell. She's still holding out."

Steph feels the acid start in her gut.

"So here's what I want," Jamal says. "Next time, you bring her out. In public. Like, maxed out. Sluttiest possible shit. I pick the outfit. You do the makeup. You walk her to the porn store off 23rd--"

"That place is a dump," Steph says.

"Exactly," Jamal says, delighted. "It's perfect. Gloryholes, video booths, the works. She'll die of shame."

Steph laughs. "You're sick."

"I'm effective." Jamal leans in closer, his scent all musk and expensive soap. "And I want to see if you can handle it. You and her. Both."

Steph shakes her head, but it's performative. Already she can picture it: Annie in a see-through dress, heels, maybe a leash. The clerk's face. The old men in the booths, shocked and then grinning. The way Annie would shrink and shiver, the way Steph could hold her upright, smile, make it all seem inevitable.

She tries to imagine saying no. The space where that refusal should be is empty.

"Why?" she says. "What's the endgame?"

Jamal shrugs. "Because you can. Because it's funny. Because someone like you should never have power unless she's willing to lose it."

Steph feels something twist inside her--guilt, maybe, or just the last scrap of self-respect. "You know she's not okay, right? This is getting dark."

Jamal's expression doesn't shift. "Then stop. See if you can. But you won't."

Steph looks at her hands, the veins sharp against the skin.

"Okay," she says. "I'll do it."

Jamal grins. "I knew you would."

They eat in silence after that. Steph's stomach is a fist, but she forces the pho down, eyes never leaving Jamal's. Every time he smiles, she feels the leash tighten around her own neck.

* * *

Back at the apartment, Annie is curled on the couch, wearing a hoodie and nothing else, legs tucked under her. The breastplate is gone, but the adhesive has left a red rash across her collarbones, bright as a warning. She's watching a cooking show with the volume off, phone resting on her thigh.

Steph sits beside her, folding her own legs to mirror the posture.

A long pause. Then, quietly:

"You're going to hate me," Steph says.

Annie doesn't look away from the TV. "I already do."

Steph lets that land, then exhales. "Jamal wants us to go out. In public. There's a plan, but I can call it off if--"

Annie turns, eyes red, but steady. "You're not going to call it off."

Steph says nothing.

"I don't care anymore," Annie says. "If you want to ruin me, just do it. Stop making me ask for it."

Steph wants to reach out, to touch the scarlet on Annie's throat, to say something comforting or at least plausible. Instead, she stands and goes to the bedroom, pulling the next costume from the bag Jamal had left behind.

It's a dress, but barely: white mesh, off-the-shoulder, hem cut so high it would get you ticketed at any bar. The matching thong is a joke--two bands of elastic, a coin-sized patch of fabric. There are thigh-highs, too, and a set of clear heels with a six-inch platform.

Steph holds the outfit up, lets the morning light pour through the mesh.

Annie stands in the doorway, watching.

"You know how to put it on?" Steph asks.

Annie nods.

"Then do it," Steph says. Her own voice surprises her, the flatness, the authority.

Annie takes the bundle and disappears. Steph can hear her in the bathroom, the slap of elastic, the scrape of the heel against tile.

When Annie emerges, she looks exactly like what Jamal ordered: a party favor for the world's sleaziest bachelor. The dress gapes at the sides, the mesh completely transparent under the overhead light. The thong disappears between the cheeks, and the heels make her walk like she's never learned.

Steph forces herself to keep her voice level. "Come here."

Annie obeys.

Steph does the makeup herself, this time slower, hands steady. She shaves the jaw again, covers it with three layers of color corrector, then builds a mask from the chin up: pink eyeshadow, heavy lashes, lips lined and filled until they're bee-stung and obscene.

She finishes, then steps back, appraising.

Annie meets her gaze in the mirror, then looks away.

"Do you want me to stop?" Steph asks, almost a whisper.

Annie shakes her head. "I want you to finish."

Steph sets the wig--blonde again, this one curled at the ends--over Annie's scalp, then pins it in place. She checks every angle, makes sure the adhesive is invisible.

"You're beautiful," she says, and is shocked to realize she means it.

Annie blinks away a small tear, but does not cry.

* * *

The ride to the porn shop is an exercise in logistics. Steph makes Annie ride shotgun, seatbelt cutting a diagonal across her breasts. She keeps the windows up, the A/C blasting, but every stoplight is a test: the passing cars, the men who slow down, the women who sneer.

Inside, the shop is as bad as advertised: green carpet, buzzing fluorescents, a bell over the door that rings like a threat. The clerk is ancient, a mustache yellowed by time, arms crossed over a beer belly. He looks up, then does a double-take so theatrical it must be practiced.

Steph walks Annie to the back wall, where the lingerie hangs in sad, plastic bags. She pretends to browse, but every second is measured: the clerk's eyes, the security camera above the counter, the way the door to the video booths stays open a fraction too long.

Jamal is already there, posted by the DVD racks, phone in hand. When he sees them, his face lights up.

He stalks over, grabs Annie's arm, spins her for inspection. "Damn," he says, loud enough for the clerk to hear. "You outdid yourself, Soph."

Steph feels her face flush. "She's got the legs for it."

Jamal steps close to Annie, cups her ass in his palm, squeezes. "Bet she could take a fist, with enough lube."

The clerk clears his throat, but doesn't intervene.

Jamal leans into Steph's ear. "Booth four," he says, then steers Annie down the row of grimy video cubicles.

Steph follows, each step heavier than the last.

Inside, Jamal presses Annie to her knees, then locks the door behind them. The booth is barely wider than a coffin, seat cracked vinyl, the walls covered in marker graffiti: phone numbers, crude drawings, warnings about "Beware the Blue Booth Pervert."

Jamal unzips, already hard.

Steph watches, feeling her pulse in her teeth.

"Take it out," Jamal says.

Annie does, hands trembling.

He pushes her face down, then angles himself at the slot in the booth wall. "Suck it. Make sure the guy next door gets a good show."

Annie opens her mouth, takes Jamal in. The sound is wet, desperate.

Steph stands by the door, arms folded, every nerve on fire. She tries to tell herself this is wrong, but the words have no air.

On the other side of the wall, there's a cough, then a shuffle. Someone's watching.

Jamal fucks Annie's mouth, relentless, one hand in her hair. He never looks at Steph, but she knows he's aware of her gaze.

She slips a hand under her skirt, presses her fingers against the damp crotch of her panties. She tries not to, but she's already soaking through.

Annie gags, eyes streaming, but never pulls away.

Jamal grunts, then holds her face down, cock deep in her throat. He comes, loud and triumphant.

Annie swallows, then sits back, lips slick, chin gleaming.

Jamal zips up, then wipes her mouth with his thumb. "Good girl," he says.

Steph watches herself in the mirror, sees her own face--smeared lipstick, dilated pupils--and knows she's lost. She's no longer in charge. Maybe she never was.

Jamal opens the door, beckons Steph out. "Let's take her shopping. There's a place next door--leather, latex, everything. She'll look good in black."

Steph nods, follows.

On the way out, the clerk gives her a look that is equal parts awe and contempt.

She meets his eyes, and for the first time, she feels no shame.

* * *

Back at the car, Jamal tugs Steph aside, hand tight on her wrist. "You did good," he says. "But next time, I want to see you work her. Really work her."

Steph nods, because she knows it's true. She wants it as much as he does.

In the backseat, Annie is silent, dress bunched at the hips, legs spread wide.

Steph slides in next to her, runs a hand up the mesh thigh, and whispers: "Next time, you'll beg for it."

Annie closes her eyes, leans into the touch.

Steph licks the salt from her own lips, then kisses Annie's ear.

"I'm going to make you the biggest slut in this city," she says, voice low and certain.

"You'll thank me for it."

She knows, as she says it, that it's not a threat. It's a promise.

* * *

That night, Steph sleeps and dreams more vividly than ever. The dream is simple: Annie, in the mesh dress, kneeling on the porn shop carpet, lips parted. Behind her, Jamal, hands on Steph's shoulders, whispering: "Good girl. Make her beg."

In the dream, she does.

And in the morning, Steph wakes up wet, shameful by her treatment of her boyfriend Andrew, and embarrassed by her internal desire for more humiliation of Annie.